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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



MARGARET AND THE 
SINGER'S STORY. 



\ 



MARGARET 



THE SINGER'S STORY 



EFFIE DOUGLASS PUTNAM 

It 



BOSTON 
CUPPLES AND HURD 

1888 




^5 % 1 1 1 



Copyright, i888, 
By CUPPLES AND HURD. 



All rights reserved. 



MADEMOISELLE RHEA, 
OTitfj 3Lobe anti *anitttrat{on, 

THE NATURAL OUTGROWTH OF A LONG-TRIED 
AND SYMPATHETIC FRIENDSHIP, 

ARE MOST AFFECTIONATELY 

IBetitcateti. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGB 

Margaret , . ii 

Noonday 30 

My Ships ..,,,. 32 

Autumn 34 

In Vain 36 

To Merret 38 

To Loretto 39 

Sonnets 40 

Easter Morning ...... 44 

Poems . 47 

Farewell to Rhea 50 

Master and Poet 52 

To HoRTENSE 54 

Post Nubila Jubila 56 

At Midnight 58 

To M. S. 60 

7 



8 CONTENTS. 



PAGE 



The Singer's Story 5j 

Transplanted g^ 

The Chancel Window gj 

The Talisman oa 



Acknowledgment 
Hereafter . . 
Only Glad . . 
Bequests . . . . 
Groping . . . 

My Harp . . . . 



90 
93 
94 
96 
98 
102 



MARGARET AND THE 
SINGER'S STORY. 



MARGARET. 

Hard by a Berkshire village in the East, 
Closed in by hills, and watered by clear 

springs 
And little streams that bubble to a froth 
Within the busy mill-wheel's ceaseless 

turn, 
The workers in the quarry all day long 
Are blasting marble from the mountain- 
sides ; 
And, through the dusky range of towering 

hills, 
The sharp sound of the hammer, and the 

thud 
Of falhng stone, are echoing. The men 
Are blanched wath flying dust, and in the 

sun 
Their powdered garments glisten like 

the dew 
That shines upon the long grass in the 

dyke. 



12 MARGARET, 

Here lived and labored, with an honest 

heart, 
One Adrian Rood, of comely mien, and 

strong ; 
Proud in his bearing, he was ever kind. 
And ever brave and daring to defend. 
And all the village knew, respected him ; 
Bespoke the maiden lucky who should 

win 
His manly heart, his snug possessions 

too. 
The home his father builded at the foot 
Of a green hill. Here, when the day's 

turmoil 
Was ended, and the bells pealed forth, 

and quick 
The workmen flung their sledges down, 

and took 
Their weary way across the quiet street; 
When the rich glory of the sunset flashed 
Against the darkness of the mountain- 
tops. 
And mixed in mellow tints, in purple, 

gold. 
And crimson lights, — unto his sheltered 

home, 
Hid from the sun, and white amidst tall 

trees, 



MARGARET. 1 3 

Thick covered with crisp vines o'er porch 

and door, 
To where his frugal supper lay outspread, 
Came Adrian Rood. 

Then welcome was the cry 
Of the good dame who poured the tea, 

set out 
The steaming dishes savory with plain 

food, 
And gossiped cheerily, — of his day's 

work ; 
And was he tired? Did he feel the heat, 
She asked, of noonday? Would the 

nightfall bring 
The needed shower? — till the lad had 

done, 
And, dressed in tidy raiment, sauntered 

out ; 
While she, her housework over, sat her 

down 
And hummed some simple tune, the loud 

click-clack 
Of needles keeping time ; or hung upon 
The gate, some neighbor telling, that 

nowhere 
In all the world a better son there was 
Than Adrian Rood. 

Close to their cottage lived 



14 MARGARET, 

Laurence the miller, with his wife, their 

child, 
Fair Madge, and her own cousin Margaret, 
Their sweet charge. Orphaned now for 

many a year, 
Alone, forsaken, on life's sea adrift, 
They took her in ; and while she still was 

one 
In kindred with them, yet she thought 

she was 
A burden, made herself a veriest drudge 
In compensation for the few bare wants 
Which they supplied her. So, when 

Adrian came 
To chat with Laurence in the cool of 

day, 
She, the poor timid maiden, held aloof, 
And in all things she gave the preference 
To Madge. For she had heard the town- 
folks say 
That he came wooing: 'twas the father's 

wish. 
The mother's too, nor Adrian seemed 

averse. 
For, gayly clothed in holiday attire. 
There lived no fairer maiden in the 

town ; 
And if she bore herself defiantly, 



MARGARET, 1 5 

And tossed her head in consciousness of 

charm, 
In no way was it strange that Adrian 

Rood 
Should wish to woo the girl; for well to do 
Was Laurence, and his child in time sole 

heir 
Would prove to comfortable estate. Yet 

she, 
Poor Margaret, grew to love unwittingly. 
They did not know ; for in her heart she 

locked 
Her secret up, and held it there so safe 
That e'en her cousin asked if she disliked 
Their friend. At which she faltered an 

excuse, — 
A household duty had called her away, 
Or she was ill or tired, any thing 
Which likelier should make amends for 

her 
Withdrawing. But she often fancied still 
That Adrian loved her too ; she felt his 

voice 
Was softer when he spoke to her, his 

hand 
At parting even had a warmer clasp 
Than when he bade the other folk good- 
night. 



l6 MARGARET, 

And sometimes, as she sat and worked, 

she knew 
His eyes were on her; but she would not 

look, 
Or trust herself to meet inquiring gaze. 
For had he not come hither but to see 
Her cousin Madge ? and he was merely 

kind 
To her, she thought, — ah, humble Mar- 
garet ! — 
Because he pitied her : he'd do as much 
For any homeless thing, — a poor lost bird 
With broken wing, down fallen from its 

nest. 
He'd stop to soothe. And then she beat 

her hands. 
And quivering in her pain, she cried, " For 

shame ! 
For if he loves me, he loves Madge the 

most.^' 
Some children of the village came one 

day 
And hung about her, praying that she 

would 
Go with them into the neighboring wood 
To gather flowers all the afternoon. 
And sit beneath the trees and tell them 

tales, 



MARGARET. 1/ 

And eat the luncheon which they had 

prepared. 
And naught would do but she must go 

with them, 
Up the steep hills, and through the count- 
less paths, 
Knee-deep in grass, and fragrant to a 

sense 
Of sickness with the mandrake bloom ; 

and oh 
The cries that echoed through the wood ! 

the gay 
Loud laughter of the children at their 

play. 
The day was fully spent, and joyously, 
When sweet a thousand blossoms, far 

and near. 
Had felt the thrill of Margaret's touch, 

and lay 
Piled up before her; and the twilight fell, 
And birds on shady boughs had ceased 

to sing, 
Ere they had left the wood, each one to 

take 
The gladsome way that led unto her 

home. 
Then merrily came Margaret with her 

flowers, 



1 8 MARGARET. 

Great heaps of bluebells, and of violet 

plants 
And columbine, and tufts of maiden-hair; 
But at the turning of the miller's lane 
She started, for there stood Adrian 

Rood. 
And Margaret blushed that he should 

find her thus 
Bedecked, like a May Queen at festival: 
For on her head the girls had weaved a 

crown, 
And there were strings of daisies round 

her waist. 
But there he waited, smiling as he 

reached 
To take the basket from her; and he 

cried, 
" Nay, Margaret, 'tis too heavy, and your 

cheeks 
Are flushed with walking. Give it me, 

dear Meg, 
And I will go with you unto the end 
Of this long lane." And Margaret's 

foolish heart 
Beat violently when at the gate he paused 
And hindered her from entering, as he 

asked 
A flower to keep in memory of this 



MARGARET, 1 9 

Their pleasant walk. She trembling 

plucked a rose, 
And shyly gave it him. Without a word 
She hurried up the little garden-path ; 
And half the night she could not sleep, 

but knelt 
Beside her window wondering, and 

breathed 
The heavy fragrance from the lilac-tree, 
In momentary joy of that great love 
Which Adrian requited as she knew 
By every look and word. Next day 

about 
Her uncle's house she moved distract- 
edly, 
Scarce saw the frown upon her cousin's 

brow ; 
For Madge waxed cold, and never spoke 

to her, 
Or helped her with the work as was her 

wont. 
Till Margaret questioned, fearing she 

was ill, 
And twined her arms around her cousin's 

neck ; 
At which Madge shook her off, and 

stared at her 
Indignant, saying, *' 'Tis a pretty way 



20 MARGARET. 

You have, oh yes, a very pretty way ! 

But you may keep it to yourself, your 
words 

And fawning sweetness for Adrian 
Rood. 

I'll none of them. A very traitor's kiss 

Is this which you have given." And 
Margaret 

Stood, not knowing what she heard, till 
the voice 

Of Mistress Laurence shrill and loud 
broke forth 

In angered tone. '' And so, niece Mar- 
garet, 

What game is this you play ? The beg- 
gared child 

That I took in and cared for as my own, 

You fix a try sting-place to meet the man 

Your cousin was to wed, and then come 
back 

And sleep in peace beneath our honest 
roof. 

What recompense is this, deceiving 
minx ? " 

Then the pale girl, deep injured, like a 
queen 

Rose up, and looking in their faces, cried 

" Nay, aunt, nay, cousin, but you do amiss 



MARGARET. 21 

To censure like to this without a cause ; 
For, as I live, I knew not Adrian Rood 
Would meet me from the woodland com- 
ing home. 
In sooth, you know I would not be untrue 
To you, to Madge, or still to him who 

loves 
Your daughter." She turned as if to 

leave them, 
But close upon the threshold stood the 

form 
Of Adrian Rood ; and Margaret, seeing 

him, 
Crept back, and hid her tearful face within 
Her hands. Lo ! a deep silence fell, nor 

broke 
Till the brave lad stepped forward ; and 

he spake, 
*^ Forgive me that I heard, unseen, my 

name, 
And heard it wrongfully accused, Hke that 
Poor child, whose honest word you hear 

shall be 
Confirmed by mine. I own that I did 

meet 
The maiden in the lane, vet she nor I 
Had fixed the hour or named a trysting- 

place ; 



22 MARGARET, 

And if we had, what then ? I say, what 

then ? 
Since not to any one am I beholden. 
But His meet I know the accusation ; 
For I have come this very night to ask 
The girl in marriage, not Madge, but 

Margaret." 
And not a word said they ; nay, not a 

sound. 
Except the flutter of a night bat's wings 
As it flew past the window, could be 

heard. 
They were perplexed, dumb - stricken 

every one. 
As Adrian's voice resounded in the room. 
" Come, Margaret, your answer : speak it 

out! 
I cannot dally with fine words, or frame 
In pretty speech the love I bear for you; 
But I'll be true and tender to the last, 
If you will only wed me, Margaret.'' 
" If I could die, if I could only die ! " 
The poor girl thought, as looking up she 

saw 
Her cousin weeping ; for she knew that 

Madge, 
In spite of all, had loved the young man 

well. 



MARGARET, 23 

But straightway she went near to where 

he stood, 
And took his hand, and kissed it as she 

said, 
" I always knew you had a noble heart. 
And much I thank you for the part you 

take 
In my behalf; but while I honor you 
Past all compare, respect, ay, love you 

too. 
Yet not enough to wed you, Adrian Rood." 
Then she dropped down before him in a 

swoon. 
He raised her up, and tenderly he brushed 
The waving hair back from her face, and 

sighed 
To see her there so still, and white, and 

cold ; 
And turning to the others, in hoarse voice 
He bade them look to her, and staggered 

out 
Into the night, a sad and hopeless man. 
Madge clung to Margaret, and she sobbed 

aloud, . 
" Oh, sweet my cousin, I have done you 

ill; 
But speak to me and say that you for- 
give ! " 



24 MARGARET. 

And Margaret faintly answered, " I for 

give." 
Then ever as before they labored on 
About the miller's household as of yore. 
Yet never shone the face of Adrian 

Rood 
Upon his neighbor's porch as in old 

time, 
And never in their midst his name was 

spoke, 
For something in the look of Margaret's 

eye 
Forbade it. Yet she smiled again, and 

went 
About her duty uncomplainingly. 
But once alone, shut in her silent room. 
The burden of her seeming she cast off, 
And wept that Adrian should live to 

think 
Himself unloved. She could not see a 

hope 
To cheer her on ; and thus a year went 

by, 

And in the heated term the village was 
O'ertaken by a plague, a dread disease, 
A fever, that so swiftly spread, it swept 
Away whole families. And Margaret 
went 



MARGARET. 2$ 

And watched beside the sick, and cared 
for them. 

And when they chid her for her reckless- 
ness 

In braving the contagion at its height, 

And strove to hold her from the frightful 

ill, 

She prayed they would but leave her to 

her peace ; 
For if she died there surely was no 

loss. 
And then no selfish thought could hold 

her from 
The right of doing good. So through 

the rank, 
Polluted air of that grim pestilence 
She ventured, till herself was stricken 

low. 
It was at harvest-time ; yet the ripe grain 
In its full beauty lay untouched. The 

sky 
In dreamy blue looked down on stinted 

growth 
Of corn that shimmered in the breath of 

hot 
Noonday; and ruthlessly the lilies were 
Destroyed, dried up amongst the seedy 

grass 



26 MARGARET. 

And weeds in quantity. No reaper's 
voice 

Came joyous from the field, for every- 
where 

Within the little town there was a sad 

Home-comingo Then upon her humble 
couch 

They laid poor Margaret down, and 
tenderly 

Through many weary nights were vigi- 
lant. 

But ever and anon, without a pause. 

Deliriously she called for Adrian Rood ; 

And they, not willing to refuse her aught, 

Were loath to let her die unsatisfied. 

So Madge made sacrifice of foolish 
pride, 

And set in search, and found him as he 
came 

At evening from working in the quarry. 

He paled a little when he saw the girl 

Her doleful message speaking, and he 
heard 

As in a dream that Margaret wished for 
him. 

" Oh, come ! " cried Madge ; " our cousin 
lies beyond 

All hope of cure. Be noble now as you 



MARGARET. 2/ 

Have been. In Heaven's name, for- 
give ! " Said he, 
" There's nothing to forgive, but I will 

go." 
Then silently together through the street. 
Unto the house, and up the narrow 

stair, 
They entered in the chamber where she 

tossed. 
So thin and worn that Adrian knew her 

not. 
She was so changed. But softly he drew 

near 
And took her hand, a frail and shrunken 

one, 
And pressed his lips upon it. She 

looked up. 
And seeing him she whispered, "You 

have come, 
And it is well ; for here upon my heart 
Is something which burns me for the 

keeping." 
And when he gently told her not to 

talk, 
She seemed so weak, she smiling an- 
swered him, 
" Oh, let me speak ! " And while the 

sun's last rays 



28 MARGARET. 

A halo formed to luminate her face, 
She said that she had loved him from the 

first; 
That even when she let him go away 
Refused, when he had wished to marry 

her, 
She loved him most. She felt it was her 

right, 
Since now she lay a-dying (so she 

thought), 
To tell him all, since Madge was pledged 

to wed 
A young man of the town at Easter- 
time. 
Then she sank back exhausted ; but her 

eyes 
Were fixed on him until the darkness 

came, 
And when the morning broke in rosy 

light 
Above the vine-clad hills, and she awoke, 
He still was lingering there with anxious 

heart. 

Though weary weeks went by without a 

change, 
The maiden did not die. She lived to 

pluck 



MARGARET, 29 

May blossoms with the children, now her 

own, 
For many happy years ; and Adrian's 

pride 
Is his sweet wife, whose name is 

Margaret. 



NOONDAY. 

I HEAR a bird, sweet singing near its nest, 
And see the sunshine on the water's 
breast, 

And sit among the grasses tall and high, 
That hold their clustered heads up to the 
sky. 

I see a butterfly on a pale flower, 
That droops its head in this bright noon- 
day hour. 

Not far beyond this meadow-land of green, 
'Neath shady trees that sometimes inter- 
vene, 

A cattle herd stands grazing in content. 
In clover pastures, rich with blossoms 
spent ; 

30 



NOONDAY, 31 

And to the east the beach's whitening 

sands, 
With quiet sea that leads to distant lands. 

Cool, in defiance of the glittering sun, 
The little craft sail outward, one by one. 

Ah, noon of life ! meridian of day ! 
Would thou were sweet and bright as this 
alway ! 



MY SHIPS. 

How many ships have I sailed out to sea, 
Bound with fond hopes for undiscovered 

lands, 
Tossing on waves no seaman understands ! 
Who stops to listen to philosophy? 
Who thinks of storm winds, or the power 

that strands 
Our freighted ships on lonely foreign 

lands, 
Or wrecks them — sinks them deep and 

hopelessly? 

heartless gales ! by what foul strategy 
Burst thou the grappling of the iron 

bands 
That girt the proud ship that belonged to 
me ? 

1 stood upon the shore but yesterday, 
And waved God-speed to that fair-laden 

bark; 
32 



MY SHIPS. 33 

But all last night, though I did weep and 

pray, 
The sea grew furious, and the sky grew 

dark. 
Rudderless and anchorless, she sank 

away — 
No lighthouse gleaming with a warning 

spark — 
And all my coined merchandise to pay 
My heart's creditor, was lost in the dark. 



AUTUMN. 

Leaves tremble overhead, then under- 
neath, 

With silken sound and aromatic breath. 

Fall to earth, making bright contrast with 
all 

The slender reeds, the purple thistle- 
blow, 

And darkly tinted grasses in the dike. 

Then grow the evenings longer, and the 
days 

Wax short; and, from the burning brush, 
the smoke 

Curls gracefully, like incense in a church. 

The best, most glorious temple, gilded 
far 

With a supreme adornment everywhere, 

The world, disrobed of her charms, goes 
back 

To gardens bare, and naked trees, to sleep 
34 



AUTUMN. 35 

'Neath frosty sheen, with just enough of 

life 
To show she does but sleep, and soon 

will wake 
And smile again, so sure the promise 

given, 
Into a sunny springtime ladened fair. 



IN VAIN. 

I HEARD a bird, with golden wing, 

Sing in the poplar-tree. 
I longed to catch the quivering thing, 

And all its melody. 

But soon the feathery songster fled, 
And skimmed the meadowy lea ; 

And all the singing birds he led 
Away, away from me. 

The sun shone down in golden streams 

Upon my cottage floor. 
I tried to stay the shining beams. 

To keep them evermore. 

Straightway the sun sank out of sight, 
The shadows gathered thick, 

And left me in the dreary night 
Alone, sore-hearted, sick. 
36 



IN VAIN. 37 

And once beside the sea I stood, 
The moonlight shining down 

On white waves in the murmVing flood, 
And seaweeds salt and brown. 

And, oh ! I cried for joy to see, 

Upon the sandy beach, 
A pearl of priceless rarity 

Within my easy reach. 

In hideous mockery, the tide 

Came in with ravenous roar ; 
And now will restless waters hide 

The pearl forevermore. 



TO MERRET. 

Little friend, there is a flower, 

Unsullied by a darksome spot, 
Purest that grows in earthly bower. 

Sweetest emblem of holy thought. 
Ever looking up towards Heaven, 

Youthful hearts it seems to tell, 
Let thy life to truth be given, 

All thou dost shall be done well. 
In thy soul, then, dearest Merret, 

Thou must keep it, boldly wear it, 
Shining forth in all its brightness. 

Living fresh in snowy whiteness. 
Tell me, shall thine emblem be 

A lily pure and fair to see ? 
38 



TO LORETTO. 

What though the critics hesitate thy 

praise, 
And on the faces of thy canvas throw 
But careless glance ; or if in passing 

raise 
Broad hint, dislike to shape or size, or 

glow 
Of color in thy work which speaks the 

soul, 
Lo ! 'gainst God's handiwork some 

mortal cries, 
And none alike sees beauty as a whole ; 
Though be it mote or tear in other eyes, 
We know not, but the difference is. O 

thou 
With consecrated life, free given to Art, 
Live full thy promise ! Let the years 

endow, 
Nor from thy task let faithful soul depart. 

39 



SONNETS. 



The buds were bursting from the linden- 
trees, 

And over all the land the sun shone 
down, 

And, flitting through the brushwood 
thick and brown, 

The robins built and sung. The April 
breeze 

The violets moved on their low bended 
knees. 

Hearts thrilled with joy and peace, and 
love new grown ; 

And the prolific seed of life was sown 

In every nook, in wild, sweet melo- 
dies 

Along the stream, or 'cross the meadow 
blown. 
40 



SONNETS. 41 

'-'- Good-by," he said, and smiled e'en as 

he spake ; 
And I, so sure of all things best for 

him, 
Smiled back, and said, " Good-by ; " for 

his dear sake 
I smiled, nor would not let my eyes grow 

dim. 
Although my soul's best portion was at 

stake. 



*^ God loves the good." He proves by 

death and pain 
The measure of that love, while life is 

young, 
And all its sweetest music is unsung. 
He robs the fields of ripening golden 

grain, 
And leaves the thistle growing in the 

lane. 
O gentle Christ, forgive ! My soul has 

clung 
To his soul's garments the long years 

among. 
Now 'gainst my pahng cheeks the tear- 
drops rain, 
And o'er the midnight not a star is hung 



42 SONNETS, 

To lead me through the darksome paths 

alone. 
In vain I strive the misty veil to move, 
Which Death between our visages has 

thrown ; 
But even as I pray my strength to prove, 
I prostrate fall, face downward — with a 

moan. 

III. 

Life hurries on to May, and silently 
The gentle spring grows old, and as I 

plod 
The wood-paths all alone, the heavy sod 
Lies deep above those self-same hands 

that I 
Did kiss and cling to in that last " good- 

by." 
Up the steep hill I climb, with feet 

unshod, 
While he rests happy in the fold of 

God. 
Surely, dear heart, 'tis not so hard to 

die, 
As to live on beneath the chastening rod. 
O my beloved ! turn to me once more 
With that calm light upon thy tender 

face, 



SONNETS. 43 

And with thy love the dull, dark days 

bridge o'er, 
Which e'en the tomb breaks through in 

its embrace. 
And rolls the great stone backward from 

the door. 



EASTER MORNING. 

I HAD not marked the season, but to 

count 
Time backward, for my weary heart was 

sad, 
And measured hours by records of deep 

loss. 
So when the chapel chimes rang joyfully. 
And made the south wind tremble in a 

voice 
Of common gladsome praise, that seemed 

to thrill 
All living things alike, I asked, '' Where- 
fore 
This loud acclaim of bells ? " They 

answered me, 
" The Lord is risen ! " 

As I looked abroad, 
The new-ploughed ground smelt freshly 
from the fields, 
44 



EASTER MORNING. 45 

And flowers pale, upheaved amidst young 

grass. 
Earth seemed to catch the meaning of 

the day 
In resurrected Hfe. Leaves struggled 

forth ; 
And tender buds upon the cherry-tree, 
Decked in white robes and fair, braved 

early death 
By a too sudden joy. The eastern light 
Fell golden o'er the sea, and kissed the 

brook 
In its long woodland run. The cottage 

door 
Swung open, and I wandered out, and 

felt 
My tired feet sink down in the cool 

sod. 

" Behold ! " I thought, '' am I alone so 

sad 
I cannot join in this loud hymn of praise 
To the new-risen Christ whose empty 

grave 
Is the sweet promise of eternity ? 
Shall I indeed surrender up to grief. 
And think of dear ones in their winding- 
sheets. 



46 EASTER MORNING, 

When glory-garmented the Lord comes 

forth 
And rolls the great stone backward from 

the tomb ? " 

I turned my face toward the distant hills, 
Where our beloved, in his new-made 

grave, 
Lies 'neath the shadow of their verdant 

tops, 
And with fresh hope of re-awakened life, 
I straightway wept, resigned, and cried, 

'' Amen ! '' 



They ask me, dearest, why I love thee, 

thou 
Whose fortune is so meagre, and whose 

name 
Is ranked among the losers of life's 

game. 
Fond heart, I would that I might tell 

them how 
I read my fate, writ plain upon thy brow. 
And felt at thy hand's touch a thrilling 

flame 
Shoot through my being, and the world 

became 
Transfigured all — but this I do avow, 
The love that measures out its wealth is 

tame. 
The world is naught, love, w^ere I lost to 

thee ; 
The plaudits of the crowd, the laurels 

WTOUght 

A feverish brilliance that could never 
free 

47 



48 POEMS. 

The weary dimness of my soul, — ah! 

naught 
But desolation would it bring to me. 



II. 



When I was kneeling heath cathedral 

dome, 
And the lights glimmered from the altar's 

height, 
The acolyte and priest in garments white 
Chanted the anthems of the Church of 

Rome, 
And prayed aloud amidst the evening 

gloam. 
The lofty organ swelled with glorious 

sound, 
Vibrating sweet with voices from the 

choir. 
I hfted up my eyes and peered around, 
And through the smoke of holy incense 

fire. 
They chanced upon thy face with haio 

crowned. 
What if our hands did steal across and 

meet 
In quick, convulsive grasp ? God knows, 

I say, 



POEMS, 49 

It is the best way, dear, to thus repeat 
Our souls' passionate love-vows when we 
pray. 

III. 

Why should my spirit lose its sacred fire 
By absence, O my dearest one ! from 

thee ? 
What though thy face serene I cannot see, 
My soul's true faith in thee shall never 

tire. 
That will which ministers to all shall be 
To lift us gently from this lowly mire 
Of discontent, O love ! and bring us 

higher 
Unto each other, life-star, thou and me. 
And loose our wild hearts from their 

cage of wire ! 
Be young, thou saidst; oh ! let our love be 

young, 
Let summer die, and let the autumn come. 
Let winter, with his icy mantle flung 
On every tender bush and tree, hush 

dumb 
The merry song-birds that so joyous 

swung 
Upon their boughs ! O love, my love, be 

young ! 



FAREWELL TO RHEA. 

Will you pause in your fame's fullest 

glory, 
Unrivalled, unexcelled Alcyone ? 
And hide with swifter movement than we 

dreamed 
The sweet translucent beauties that have 

gleamed 
Full on our souls, and w^on them each 

and all, 
And let the curtain veil you as a pall. 
Too soon dropped down before the vision 

fair 
Of Art's own majesty enthroned there. 
In sooth, the mellowed accents of your 

voice 
Shall ring through darkness, making hearts 

rejoice, 
And eyes that you have gladdened can- 
not stay 

50 



FAREWELL TO RHEA. 5 1 

Unmindful of the light they do obey ; 
For, lady, there shall sparkle near and 

far 
The reflex brilliance of our favorite star. 



MASTER AND POET. 

A MASTER stood beside a youth one day, 
And bade him write ; and marking out 

the length 
And rhythm of his verse, and theme and 

rhyme, 
Drew limits, and made margin to his 

page. 
And spake, "Note, thou : A-weary is the 

world 
Of these sad songs : dejected hopes and 

fears 
Make doleful sound ; and if a poet thou 
Indeed must be, let beauty's quiet charm 
And the sweet scent of flowers breathe 

thro' thy verse." 
Forthwith the youth sang out in praise 

of birds 
And blossoms and of gay young things : 

he laughed, 
52 



MASTER AND POET. 53 

He danced, he flung him on the green, 

he spent 
His force in cheering; but the world 

went by. 
One morn, when moved by some strong 

power in him, 
He wrote of love and lovers, and he 

sighed ; 
And, plucking from its stem a crimson 

rose, 
He vowed it was a hateful thing, whose 

thorns 
Stung deep ; he railed at Fortune, and he 

moaned 
His fate, and cried, '^Ah, woe is me!" 

and wept. 
Then was the master's margin overleaped. 
And all the page discolored by his tears. 
Perplexed meanings hurried thro' one line 
Of that forbidden usage of his gift. 
But even as the master frowned on him, 
A shout went up, and from its length and 

breadth 
The w^orld acknowledged and proclaimed 

him sreat. 



TO HORTENSE. 

God gives no sweeter gift than which 

thou hast, — 
The power to move the soul and moist 

the eye, 
To gladden and make joyous with thy 

smile, 
More grateful than a glimpse of summer 

sky. 
'Tis not thy name alone is great: thy 

worth 
Looms greater far; and while the laurel 

wreathes 
Thy brow, it does not check the hand 

that seeks 
To render love the only crown life needs. 
Queen, artist, friend, and woman above all, 
With face Madonna-like, and soul of fire, 
Whereat we gather, and are warmed and 

cheered, 
54 



TO HO R TENSE. 55 

And lifted up to spheres, transfigured 

higher. 
Let others call thee great, I'll say thou'rt 

good, 
With prodigal acceptance of the claim 
To genius, merit, art, and all things best, 
Which God hath granted with thy spot- 
less fame. 



POST NUBILA JUBILA. 

The silly bird upon the tree-top there 
Would loudly sing, altho' his mate were 

dead ; 
Would chirp upon the bush whence she 

had fled, 
And hop about, content, nor seem to care, 
And pick the brightest berries everywhere. 
I've seen a child at play by a death-bed, 
Cooing and laughing while the prayers 

were said. 
"Hush it!" they whispered; but I did 

not dare 
To lay my hand across the golden hair, 
And crown the first woe on that baby 

head. 
I could not say, " Child, laugh no more, 

but weep. 
And learn what death is ere thou knowest 

life." 
Nay, little one, play on, for grief will creep 
56 



POST NUBILA JUBILA, 57 

Upon thee later in this field of strife, 
Thy curls the sunshine will not always 
keep. 

Man is inconstant to his griefs amassed ; 
Sorrows grown old and fading with the 

past, 
The darkness he hath known, the rain, 

the wind, 
The faith which he hath lost in human 

kind, 
The salt of bitter tears, the tempest blast, 
The ships of freighted hopes at random 

cast, 
The tender clasp of hands with his in- 
twined, 
Multitudinous aches of heart and mind. 
And wreck of happy hours too fair to last 
Wax dim within the years he leaves 

behind. 
O bird ! O child ! O man ! weak-hearted, 

vain, 
Behold ! ye are alike proportionate 
In warmth of constant love and lasting 

pain ; 
And even death doth prove subordinate 
To that new love which blossoms out 



AT MIDNIGHT. 

While on the hearth the embers die 
away, 
And the light flickers from the ill-fed 
lamp, 
And shadows sad among the ashes gray 
Move to and fro with noiseless, weary 
tramp ; 

While through the broken pane the tem- 
pest sighs, 
And my steps falter on unsteady floor, — 
Shades of departed joys around me rise, 
With one dear face that smiles on me 
no more ; 

With one sweet voice that thrills of trans- 
port gave. 
Now silent as the grass beneath the 
snow, — 
58 



A T MIDNIGHT, 5 9 

As heedless to my heart-cries as the grave 
Are all these shadows moving to and 
fro. 

Oh ! if 'twere mine, beloved one, but mine 
To feel thy hand within mine own hand 
steal 
Across the waste of youth, that border- 
line 
That marks the awful darkness where 
I kneel, 

I'd die content, with one warm look from 
thee. 

And feel it good to be recalled above. 
And soar from earth into eternity, 

A victim, dearest, to exceeding love. 



TO M. S. 

(Written on the fly-leaf of George Eliot's " Spanish 
Gypsy.") 

I WOULD that you might read the Spanish 

tale 
Writ here of poor Fedalma, and drink free 
Its vintage sparkling up like fire, nor fail 
Again to fill the goblet bounteously. 
For there are books (and this is one) we 

read 
And read again, gaining anew each time 
Appliances of good whose beauteous seed 
Prolific blossoms in supernal rhyme. 
Life owns no loftier aim than authorship, 
Nor any one a worthier book than this. 
Herewith I sign my name, and only dip 
Into the ink to add, your friend it is 
The giver of the book, — your friend and 

his, 

Don Silva's. 
60 



THE SINGER'S STORY. 

Oh come with me to Devon by the sea ! 
Where England's beauty holds a power 

complete, 
Where waters ripple thro' the woods and 

lea, 
Where leafy tongues of bush and tree 

repeat 
The sweetest poem written 'neath the sky. 
Of peaceful nature smiling up to God, 
Of elm and oak tree growing thick and 

high, 
And tufts of emerald-green that grace the 

sod. 
And thou wilt see the well-kept English 

lawns, 
The sloping hills, and even, smooth-beat 

roads ; 

The wide-spread parks, where gentle, 

meek-eyed fawns 

6i 



62 THE SINGER'S STORY. 

Skip gleefully; the barns, where heavy 

loads 
Of ripened grain the busy harvesters 

bring 
Are stored away ; the beds where migno- 
nette 
And marigolds and crimson poppies swing 
Their drowsy heads ; the quiet lanes beset 
With star-like blossoms blinking at the 

sun, 
And full of fragrance sweet beyond com- 
pare. 
We'll go to England, dear, beloved one, 
And rest among the clustered hillocks 

there. 
'Twas there my father closed his weary 

eyes 
In silent sleep of death (my mother said), 
For, dear, it happened all before the skies 
So dull and gray looked down on me. I 

dread 
To contemplate my mother's bitter pang 
In giving life to me, while far away 
My father lay, whose funeral bell rang 
Mournfully, two months before the day 
That I was born. I had two sisters, — 

Kate 
Was the younger, a comely little maid, 



THE SINGER'S STORY. 63 

Who romped with me, and was my sole 

playmate 
On village green or 'neath the orchard 

shade ; 
Then Alice, elder by five years, whose face 
Grew pale with longing, as I heard them 

say, 
For one who held within her heart a place 
Too high for idols that are made of clay. 
And she lies dead in England, loving heart. 
Too tender for the biting, wintry frosts 
Of this hard work-day world. Her life's 

best part 
Was brief, like love itself. (We know 

the costs 
Of life, we souls that love.) God gave 

her rest ; 

Death folded up the slender hands that lie 

Serenely crossed upon her maiden breast, 

Deep hidden from the reach of mortal eye. 

One bright June morn we left the 

English coast, — 
My mother, Kate, and I, — away to sail 
From old familiar haunts that proudly 

boast 
The wealth of centuries. 

" My Kate is pale : 
A change of air may bring the roses back. 



64 THE SINGER'S STORY, 

My boy is ill," my patient mother said. 
'* We'll cross the ocean, tho' our heart- 
strings crack 
To leave behind us England and our 

dead." 
I well remember when we landed here. 
The bustle of the people hastening by 
Filled me with terror, and full many a 

tear 
Coursed down my cheeks. *' Ah, well-a- 

day ! " thought I, 
" 'Tis not so fair as Devon ; I love it 

not ! " 
And, clinging wildly to my mother's knee, 
I sighed for home, and vainly, vainly 

sought 
To scan the sea that lay 'twixt it and me. 
Here on these shores began the gloomy 

days 
And nights, with storm-winds whistling 

shrill and loud ; 
Our mother toiHng, but in fruitless ways, 
To drive away the hungry wolves that 

crowd 
Against the door of that poor, helpless 

soul. 
Who, coming friendless unto foreign 

lands, 



THE SINGER'S STORY. 65 

Looks upon death, and hears the burial 

toll 
Of all her happiness, and hopeless stands 
Despairing. So went by the summer 

days. 
Till regal Autumn and her courtiers came 
To steep the land with crimson dyes 

ablaze, 
Alike on bush and tree and ground the 

same. 
I cannot tell thee when I learned to 

sing. 
'Twas ere I knew the meaning of the 

words 
I scarce could speak, sweet tones re- 
echoing 
Untutored, like the golden-winged birds. 
" Marvellous ! " they cried, who listened 

unto me. 
'Twas strange, they said, so young, so 

frail a form, 
So small a throat, could hold such melody. 
These were our neighbors, who, thro' 

evenings warm. 
Would sit outside to listen to my song, 
And with their plaudits generous and 

loud 
Would startle me, while, clambering along 



66 THE SINGER'S STORY. 

The window-sill, the little ones would 

crowd. 
When times grew worse with us, in hope- 
fulness 
I struggled as I could in humble ways 
To help my mother out of her distress 
By little songs and merry roundelays, 
That I would softly steal away to sing 
In crowded street or busy market-place ; 
Glad to the very soul of me to bring 
An end to hunger and its chill embrace. 
One morn, beside the open window 
singing, 
Half to myself, a quaint old English 

song, 
I watched the sunshine in the East up- 
springing. 
And flocks of birds that southward flew 

along ; 
And as I sat there, with my sad eyes 

straining 
Out to the sky beyond the yellow trees, 
My voice commingled with the low com- 
plaining 
Of dying summer borne upon the breeze. 
No ears for muflled footsteps on the 

walk 
Beneath my open window near the street, 



THE SINGER'S STORY, 6/ 

Nor eyes for finger silencing the talk 

Of passers-by. 

How many paths are beat 

To narrow ways that lead to daily work ! 

I lay my hand upon my heart and think, 

O God, my God ! of all the ills that lurk 

To drag souls downward to a sinful brink. 
Just then upon the window-sill a hand 

Touched mine, and rays of sunshine lu- 
mined bright 

On kind Roberto's face. (I understand 

The meaning of a messenger of light.) 

" Have the birds, my little one, been 
teaching thee," 

He said, *' some fragment of their tender- 
est song? 

Where hast thou learned to quote so 
perfectly 

The language of that gayly-feathered 
throng ? 

Thou hast been stealing from the night- 
ingale. 

That sings the night thro' on the rose- 
bush tree, 

Some tender ditty or some lovelorn tale. 

Sweet bird, svvcet bird, I prithee answer 
me." 
" I never had a teacher, sir," said I, 



68 THE SINGER'S STORY. 

" Not even 'mongst the birds, nor ever 

heard 
The nightingales in melody soar high, 
Nor pilfered from the rights of man or 

bird, — 
Not I ; tho' I have watched birds on the 

wing, 
And sighed for just their power to fly 

some day 
So very far from every living thing. 
My hfe is dreary, and heaven's so far 

away ! " 
Then moved by something in his face 

and way. 
And kindly speech : " Roberto is a 

friend," 
Thought I, ''to trust, and unto him I'll 

pray 
To bring this weary conflict to an end : 
The angels hear no longer what I say." 

I joined Roberto on the street outside ; 

He led me thro' the crowded thorough- 
fare, 

And paused before a house whose portal 
wide 

Flew open as he knocked and entered 
there. 



THE SINGER'S STORY. 69 

There sat a man, a book upon his knee, 
With face refined and full of sympathy, 
Turning the printed pages leisurely. 
Roberto entered hand in hand with me. 
Then from the crimson cushions of his 

chair 
The stranger rose and spake, " Whom 

have we here ? " 
And stroked his hand across my sunny 

hair, 
And smiled on him with warmth who 

brought me there. 
''Good Florio," Roberto answered, "he. 
This skylark, 'cross my path this morning 

fell, 
And I have brought him as a gift to 

thee, 
A youthful Jenni for thy ' Guillaume 

Teli; " 
I think that God must love me truly, dear, 
To send into my life his angels blest. 
Who unconditionally have clasped me 

near, 
And held me. What surer, holier test 
Of godly love than this ? The warm 

sunshine 
And the pale moonlight come to each 

and all: 



70 THE SINGER'S STORY, 

Crush but the purple grape, thou'lt have 

the wine ; 
And, if thou'lt shake the tree, ripe fruit 

will fall. 
But friendship that is perfect and serene 
Thro' heat, thro' cold, that ever constant 

flows 
Thro' every avenue of life between 
Some heart and thine ; that feels and sees 

and knows 
The border-line of all thy joy, thy grief, — 
Comes that to all? Nay, nay, I say to 

thee, 
Unless 'tis nurtured on a firm belief 
Of mutual merit and sincerity, 
As well take chaff and call it golden 

wheat, 
Or sit beneath a lamp and call it sun, 
Or drink a cup of gall and say 'tis sweet, 
As think that friendship otherwise is won. 

Now Florio was master of the art 
That nature wed him to ; musician, too, 
At princely courts he had been from the 

start ; 
Was versed in lyrics, and could thrill thee 

thro'. 
Kindle thy heart by his empyrean fire. 
By magic fingering of the ivory keys, 



THE SINGER'S STORY. J I 

Make bold within thee every pure desire. 
And set thee bended on devoutest knees 
Among fair angels chanting, rising higher. 

And Florio loved me, and I grew beneath 
The tenderest of care ; the world was 

bright 
Within the radius of his smile. A wreath 
I formed of all his gifts, whose infinite. 
Sweet charm I wore within my soul. Ah 

me ! 
He loved me for love's sake, as pure 

hearts do. 
Nor strove to look beneath the mask to 

see 
My worthiness : he felt my life was true. 
He bade my young, aspiring soul to fix 
Its shadowy throne upon a hill of song 
So high, to go in search for it should 

mix 
In its wild flight with all the birds in 

throng 
That build their nests upon the rocky 

edge. 
Defy the avalanche, the wind, the storms, 
Mock at the robins on the garden hedge. 
That live on berries and dig down for 

worms. 



72 THE SINGER'S STORY. 

Then from the world my countenance I 

turned, 
And every day and night my efforts bent 
To those Olympian heights where life was 

burned 
In sacrificial offering innocent, 
Slave to that grim, exacting usurer, Fame, 
Whose coin, tho' heaped up to the over- 
flow 
Of all the world, were recompense too 

tame 
For losing all the sweets that lie below. 
What followed next the chroniclers 

have told : 
The youthful songster, marvel of the age, 
Turned all his silvery warbling into gold. 
And won a place upon the lyric stage. 
Vain pomp and mimicry of life, set out 
Before the people to applaud, with things 
And baubles to attract the eye, and flout 
Upon the boards in garb of Eastern 

kings. 
Thus did I live, and was contented well, 
Since Florio willed it so ; gained triumphs 

rare. 
And adulations, that as bubbles fell 
And bounded from my heart into the air. 
Roberto died. Good Florio, grown old, 



THE SINGER'S STORY. 73 

Unto a quiet home 'midst books and 

songs 
Repaired with honor; but ne'er lost his 

hold 
Upon my heart, that even 'midst the 

wrongs 
Of all the busy life which broadened out 
For me, grew stronger, helping me to find 
A place high up in art, and hear the shout, 
" Bravissimo ! " proclaimed. Ah ! Fate 

was kind 
To mother and to Kate, and still to me, 
To lead them back again to home and 

friends, 
And graves where sleep their kindred 

o'er the sea, 
Where peace abides and happiness at- 
tends. 
Thus I lived on contented till thine 

eyes 
Met mine, gleamed full on me, and lifted 

up 
My soul to heaven with all its mysteries 
Quaffed thro' the bounty of love's chalice 

cup. 
The first time that I saw thee, dearest 

love, 
It was in May. I even note the hour, 



74 THE SINGER'S STORY, 

When thou did'st pass my vision like the 

dove 
White-winged, that bore the ohve-branch 

of power, 
Of promissory haven, green fields of 

thyme, 
Fresh with the fairest flowers that e'er 

grew 
Untrammelled by the foot of man. The 

clime 
Was sweeter for thy smile, my own, my 

true. 

Then the next time, beneath cathedral 

dome 
I knelt with thee, thy saintly head bent 

low, 
In prayerful attitude thy hands ; the gloam 
Of summer evening faUing as to show 
Thy form against the sombre stone-church 

wall. 
The painted angels on the ceiling high 
Seemed trembling, breathing with the rise 

and fall 
Of the great organ's richest harmony. 
Silent w^as I to catch the holy prayer 
Passing the threshold of thy sweet young 

lips, 



THE SINGER'S STORY. 75 

And every sigh that left thee kneeling 

there 
Was sunk into my heart like weary ships 
O'er-freighted, that find rest on land at 

last. 
Mid coral forests tinged with rosy glow, 
So deeply sunk, so moored, so anchored 

fast. 
They cannot rise again, they're laid so low. 

It all comes back, — the peaceful atmos 

phere, 
And all the feverish heat of after-days •, 
The whirlpool's fury wrecking hope and 

cheer 
And hfe's supremest joy, half lost in haze. 
'' I am a poor Bohemian at the best," 
Said I, "tossed here to-day, to-morrow 

there ; 
My life is one of turmoil, care, unrest, 
Keen disappointment grapphng every- 

w^here. 
But wilt thou think of me, and let thy voice 
Reach o'er the darkness of the troubled 

sea 
Of doubt, despair, and let thy soul rejoice 
With mine, which wholly shall belong to 

thee ? " 



^6 THE SINGER'S STORY. 

One glorious moment heart to heart we 

stood, 
And then we parted. 'Twas a piteous 

fate 
To say adieu to heaven, whose portals 

should 
Shut me from joy and leave me desolate. 
Is love, fond heart, then, a forbidden fruit, 
That, tasting of its sweetness, one must 

be 
Forth driven from the light, like hunted 

brute. 
And made to eat the dust ? O misery ! 
Accused, condemned : it was a sin, indeed, 
To dare to love their child, thy people 

said. 
They drew thee from my side as if a weed 
Of poisonous growth had started up in- 
stead 
Of flowers. " She must have roses for 

her path," 
They said. " Those tender feet have 

never trod 
The lowly sands of earth." They in their 

wrath 
Forgot the sharp thorn-daggers, and that 

sod 
Is coolino: to the feet. 



THE SINGER'S STORY. 7/ 

" Accuse me not," 
Thy letter spake, " for I do love thee, 

dear. 
As fond as heart can love ; but I am 

caught 
And held upon this rack. Nay, do not 

fear 
To trust me thro' the long and weary years 
That needs must pass ere we again shall 

meet. 
Farewell ! God wills it so. No woman's 

tears 
Fall bitterer down than these upon this 

sheet. 
One burning drop the very paper sears.'* 

I kissed the tear-stains on thy letter's 

page, 
And cried, " Now help me, Heaven ! tho' 

I do stand 
Forbidden, I'll burst the wires of the cage 
That holds my love : that right is my 

command. 
Come, lion strength, and fill my earnest 

soul 
To bear the burden of her people's curse; 
Let lightnings flash, and let the thunders 

roll; 



78 THE SINGER'S STORY, 

To live apart from my true love 'twere 
worse. 

Thou knowest always there's a waking, 
dear, 

From every dream ; and, if the dream be 
sad, 

We laugh, and say, *' Oh, foolish, mis- 
spent tear ! '' 

And clap our hands, and cry, '' How glad, 
how glad 

I am 'tis but a dream ! " But if ihe dream 

Be sweet, and we awaken in the night 

From visions that are brighter than the 
gleam 

Of seraph wings bleached white within 
the sight 

Of God, we wring our hands and moan, 
" Ah me ! 

That I might sleep again, and die while 
dreaming." 

Then gaze without the window-pane to see 

If morning on the hill-top may be gleam- 
ing. 

So I have wakened from a gloomy night 

To find a glorious day, and even thee 

Beside my very hearth, where sparkle 
bright 

The fires of peace and joy and liberty. 



THE SINGER'S STORY. 79 

For thou art free, yea, free as air to love 

me : 
I read the truth writ plain upon men's 

faces 
As I go on ; I hear it whisperingly 
Repeated by the summer breeze. It places 
On the pinnacle of life (the singer's life), 
A crown so fair that kings might cry aloud 
For envy of the gift. O faithful wife ! 
I am so proud of thee, dear heart, so 

proud ! 
Is this the end? say'st thou, is this the 

end? 
As if a glimpse of heaven could satisfy 
My soul. Nay, nay, my best, my truest 

friend. 
Unless thy blue eyes falsely testify, 
There is no end ; unless our solemn oath 
Turn recreant, the book begun shall be 
Continued ever. May God bless us both ! 
Thee first and always, and forever me. 
I sing my songs for thee henceforth, till 

death. 
My heart is thine, command it at thy will. 
And like a harp in soft ^olian breath 
'Twill tremble, vibrate, echo — or grow 

still. 



TRANSPLANTED. 

Of all time in the year to die, the hardest 

is in June, 
When earth and air and babbling brook 

are full of gladsome tune ; 
When Nature knows no discontent, and 

grass grows thick and high, 
And lilies look like chalice-cups uplifted 

to the sky. 

" I would not die in June," so ran the 

poet's tuneful words, 
That fluttered in my heart of hearts like 

wings of prisoned birds. 
Yet when she died, she that we loved, 

whose life was crossing noon, 
'Twas only by the roses that we knew the 

month was June. 

A heaped-up mass of living flowers be- 
spoke it with their breath, 
80 



TRANSPLANTED. 8 1 

For in our hearts 'twas winter with the 
anguish of this death. 

I said, '^ She is asleep," as she wearily- 
turned her head ; 

But soon they drew me from the room, 
and whispered, '^ She is dead ! " 

And though the sun shines out to-day, 

and flowers bloom just the same, 
It seems as if a fierce north wind, with 

selfish, separate claim, 
Had stol'n the sweetness from the flower, 

the warmth from out the sun, 
Had turned the day into the night, with 

sorrow overrun. 

With tapers burning in the dark to point 

me to the pall 
That covers every earthly joy, and every 

hope, and ail. — 
If I could follow close behind in that dear 

mother's flight, 
'Twould lead me into Paradise, thro' 

darkness into light. 
Sometimes I think God showed his love 

to call her just at noon, 
Transplanted from a month of flowers to 

everlasting June. 



THE CHANCEL WINDOW. 

TO E. G. W. 

Peace reigned supreme upon the quiet 

shore ; 
The setting sun burst thro' the widening 

rifts 
Of cloud, and, with great streams like 

melting ore, 
Dropped down into a crimson sea; the 

cliffs, 
The rocks, the hanging crags, gleamed in 

its light, 
And, sinking low, its last reflected ray 
Caught at the world and gilded it as 

bright, 
As jewelled pavements shining on the 

way 
To heaven. Lo ! Nature seemed to pause 

between 

82 



THE CHANCEL WINDOW. 83 

Sunshine and shadow with a beauteous 

smile; 
And I, but loath to miss the lovely scene, 
Walked forth alone, my idle time to while. 
Where did I go ? Alas ! I could not say. 
But seeing far upon a grassy slope 
A house of God, I cried, "- O happy day, 
Farewell ! I'll hie me there, but not a 

hope 
Have I thou wilt await me. Fare thee 

well ! " 
Thence, hastened by my anxious heart's 

desire, 
I reached the summit ere the twilight 

fell 
On that green hillside, where the chapel 

spire 
Rose up majestical. A little shrine 
Built up by loving hands, it did appear 
Amid the gloom of trees a holy sign, 
Memorial to friend, a lost one dear. 
I entered softly, but the oaken door 
On noisy hinges swung, and, closing, sent 
Loud hollow sound that echoed o'er and 

o'er, 
As straightway up the middle aisle I went. 
With aweful feeling and with reverent 

pace, 



84 THE CHANCEL WINDOW, 

I soon drew near the chancel window, 

where 
A painted picture of rare Christian grace 
Looked down in beauty and in silent 

prayer. 
Faintly the light stole thro' the colored 

glass 
To tell the story. It was made to show 
A glimpse of sky and stretch of meadow- 
grass, 
Whereon a mendicant was bending low, 
And Christ the gentle, with a finger placed 
On his closed eyelids, bade him rise and 

see. 
And as I looked on those bold figures 

traced. 
Behold ! they seemed to breathe and 

living be, 
My friend and Master. 

Lord, we all are blind ! 
Our poverty is blindness, and we grope 
Our dreary lives out in the dark to find 
The great blind Healer. We do pray, 

we hope, 
We are so poor in sight, our human woe 
Calls out to him in passing, " Let us see ! 
Our way from day to day we do not 

know, 



THE CHANCEL WINDOW, 85 

How can we climb the path which leads 

to thee ? " 
And as I spake, the evening drawing near, 
The window but a dull mosaic grew ; 
No form, no shade, no light, no atmos- 
phere, 
No fair Christ standuig 'gainst a sky of 

blue. 
'^How blind we are!" I cried again, — 

" how blind ! " 
We stumble in the blackness of the night, 
Our feeble hands reach forth, we strive 

to find 
Thee, Lord, oh, thee ! Give back our 

failing sight." 
Then thro' the hallowed place there came 

a sound, — 
The sexton's heavy footfall on the floor. 
As he with aged form made nightly round 
To shut the casement, bar the creaking 

door. 



THE TALISMAN. 

" Go, find a four-leaved clover, dear," 

Said Martha unto me : 
*' It is a sort of talisman ; 

'Twill bring good luck to thee." 

I had been weary all the day; 

Old Martha saw it, too. 
And led me to the meadow-land, — 

Old Martha kind and true. 

Among the grassy festoons there, 

Soft swaying in the wind, 
Long we sought the four-leaved clover, 

The tahsman to find. 

The lady-bug swings lazily 

Upon its tender leaves, 
The clover tufts are rich and full, 

The air with perfume breathes. 
86 



THE TALISMAN, Zj 

The larks bring hither broods of young 
From the sun's rays to screen : 

'Tis cool beneath the clover-leaves, 
Moist, velvety, and green. 

We crossed the meadow back and forth, 

Our search had been in vain. 
When (thanks unto our patron saint) 

We wandered back again, 

I found one branch of clover bloom 
With four leaves spreading wide ; 

I clapped my hands, and Martha said 
I laughed until I cried. 

*' O Martha ! will it make me rich ? 

And will it make life flow 
With Fortune's dearest favors all 

That never change nor go ? " 

Old Martha pressed me to her heart. 
Some tears were in her eyes. 

(In youth I think her eyes were blue, — 
The color of the skies.) 

" I know one only talisman 

To help us on our way : 
'Tis purity of soul," said she, 

" God give thee that, I pray. 



88 THE TALISMAN. 

" Do thy duty, and never fear, 
Good Juck will on thee beam ; 

Life's not a fragrant clover mead, 
Nor still a fair young dream. 

" Ofttimes it is a desert waste, 

This dreary life of ours ; 
But seed is sown in every heart, 

Choice fruit and scented flowers. 

" And yet we let them wither up, 
Our paths grow thick with weeds. 

The chilly winds break down their stems, 
The insect on them feeds. 

'' Then to our neighbor's fields we go, 

As you and I this day, 
To search for sweeter blossoms there, 

Our own we fling away. 

" My little love," old Martha spake, 

^^ Thy talisman should be 
An unremitting, cheerful toil, 

A conscience chaste and free." 

'Tis many years since Martha went 

Over the fields with me 
To gather the four-leaved clovers 

That we might chance to see. 



THE TALISMAN, 89 

And I have found it true indeed, 

The lesson that she told ; 
And, as the summer days go by, 

I hear it as of old : — 

" If thou wilt have a talisman, 

Lift up thine eyes to God, 
And let the four-leaved clover lie 

To blossom on the sod.'' 



ACltNOWLEDGMENT. 



Say, was it thou, or was it wholly I, 
Sent the first arrow with a poisoned sting? 
Shall we not prove it till the day we die 
Who robbed the nest, or wounded in the 

wing, — 
Wounded the white dove with its olive 

gift, 
Sweet promise of fair lands of sun and 

flower. 
Who cut the rope and sent the boat adrift 
To fight the hard sea-waves at midnight 

hour ? 

We should have waited till a fuller growth 
Of time, of wisdom, and a gentler sight 
And feeling for each other, had made both 
Worthy to love and to be loved. We 

might 
Have moored together in a quiet sea, 
90 



A CKXO WLED GMENT. 9 1 

Or roamed the whole world thro' at even 

pace, 
But that a moment's anger grew to be 
The ruthless, stern usurper of Love's 

place. 

I cannot blame thee now in looking back, 
For youth is hot, and bandies with the 

cares 
It doth not know; aims high, and doth 

not lack 
For weapons to strike deep, nor nets, nor 

snares 
To catch wild birds afloat on quivering 

wing. 
Or tame them in a cage, or wound, or kill, 
It doth not matter, so the helpless thing 
Serves a mad purpose or a tyrant will. 

If I could wander back into the fields, 
And meet thee in the old place once 

again. 
And cull fresh flowers that the green- 

w^ood yields 
Amidst tall grass bent down by summer 

rain ; 
If I could see thee here, or there, or 

where 



92 A CKNO WLED GHENT. 

Thou art, bound with light step, or smil- 
ing stand 
Just as we parted, with an equal share 
Of love made manifest in heart and hand, 

We might retrace the vision of our youth, 
And note the hour its beacon-light went 

out. 
Or, re-awakening to the voice of truth. 
Tear from its root all soul-devouring 

doubt. 
We sinned, were sinned against. Confess 

the wrong, 
'Tis half forgiven. There would be less 

despair 
To meet halfway, or, fighting brave and 

strong, 
End pride's most dreary conflict then and 

there. 



HEREAFTER. 

I ASK myself, shall Death not compensate 
For all the scars of sorrow and the weight 
Of all the heaped-up bitterness of fate, 
And lift us into heaven inviolate ? 

We cannot carry thro' this world of dust 
A robe immaculate, as an angel must 
Who stands before the throne of heaven- 
ly trust, 
Is purified and safe from moth and rust. 

It cannot be that thorns will upward 

spring 
In after-life, with poison-darts to sting 
Young souls, from whose wild anguish 

there shall ring 
A cry that echoes back no answering. 

93 



ONLY GLAD. 

Why should these tear-drops to my eye- 
lids start 
If thou art happy, as they say thou art ? 
For all the rapture of the love I miss, 
I would not have it otherwise than this. 

The ring of promise that to me was sent 
I send thee back again, bedimmed and 

bent. 
I told thee to forget : thou hast obeyed. 
How could I hope the past might never 

fade? 

Pm not the only one in pain and grief: 

There's many a heart, like an autumn 
leaf. 

Has dropped in silence by the lone road- 
side, 

And starved there in the bitter night, and 
died. 



ONL V GLAD. 95 

Then go thy way ! I'll never speak thy 

name, 
Nor question thee, nor hate, nor even 

blame. 
What am I saying ? Nay, I am not sad : 
I'm glad thou art happy — only glad. 



BEQUESTS. 

I LOOK on books piled up with goodly- 
store 
Of manuscript, and treasured thoughts 
that rage 
With memories of one who never more 
Shall guide a pen across the virgin page, 

Or leave again the print of burning soul, 
Made manifest in poem, song, and wail ; 

For in his nature's music mixed the whole 
Of perfect melody, — the calm and gale. 

I look on pictures ranging on the wall 
Of this the empty temple of his love, — 

Mother and Child, Franciscan in his stall, 
And a repenting Magdalene above. 

I count the friends he won for me afar. 
In living clasp of whose fair, tender 
hands 
96 



BEQUESTS. 97 

He speaks again, and, like a guiding star, 
Lights my faint heart beyond the 
desert's sands. 

I look with eyes turned inward on the 
gift, 
Which e'en his gracious bounty left to 
me, 
Of a firm trust that from the dust shall 
lift 
Two souls into an endless unity ; 

Of strength to crush the pain of lesser 
woes, 
And kneel resigned beside his early 
tomb; 
For consummation of his life bestows 
On him a place where angels have made 
room. 

And this best legacy of all doth tend. 
Like odorous air diffused with the glow 

Of that pure faith I daily apprehend, 
To sweeten all this human life below. 



GROPING. 

(Affectionately to my father.) 

When the first warmth of spring-time 

came and drove 
The frost away, and in its place sprang 

buds 
Of crocus-plant, bright-hued and hardy 

grown, 
'Neath heaps of withered leaves ; when 

on the slope 
Of mountain the wild arbutus spread wide 
Its waxen petals, and then trailed to 

points 
Of dizzy height and giant crests of rock ; 
And creeping things of insect-life came 

out 
Of hiding, and the children in the copse 
Plucked May-bloom, and the world grew 

beautiful ; 
98 



GROPING, 99 

And when I first beheld re-animate 

The face of Nature smilingj — my dull 

sense 
Quickened, and I said, " Now I shall reap 

rich, 
Plenteous store of goodly things, ripe 

thoughts 
For books, and, by the waters lingering, 
Learn from their own low murmuring new 

songs. 
I shall go forth and cull the fairest flower 
To live in picture, and at earliest dawn 
Gather fresh leaves of bay-tree wet with 

dew, 
Wherewith to shade my forehead from the 

sun." 
Now the sweet breath of rosy morns was 

spent, 
And the mild heat of glorious afternoons, 
And quick the berries ripened in the 

wood, 
And ruddy apples with their heaviest 

weight 
Bent their full branches low ; but still I 

stood 
Just where the spring-time found me, 

listlessly. 
I had not writ the poem, nor had I giv'n 



lOO GROPING, 

Unto the world deep thoughts by nature 

stirred. 
The song and picture, visionary still, 
Groped for expression ; and I dreamed 

in vain. 
But ever and unceasingly built hopes 
Upon the morrow, till the summer died. 
Then with a tear born of regret and sighs 
And lamentations for the bright hours 

spent, 
I smote the strings which long had silent 

lain, 
And heard them vibrate with significance. 
Thus spake my soul out fully into 

rhyme. 
Sad like the moaning of autumnal breeze. 
Perplexed strains and minor cadence 

mixed 
With bird-notes dying in the changing 

wood. 
What wouldst thou then, O vain, O foolish 

heart ? 
Spin out the summer sunshine into thread 
Of gold to wrap thy poet fancies all 
To live fore'er untarnished? 'Tis not 

just 
The laurel should be plucked for him 

who sits 



GROPING, lOI 

Within a garden fair and sings all day, 
Who basks beneath the favor of his kind, 
Who scarcely looks aside his flowered 

path, 
And strikes the lute-strings with a lazy 

hand. 
For Poetry is born of sacred light 
Straightway from heaven, thro' the inner- 
most soul 
Of love, loss, suffering, with power to 

feelj 
And better for its growth the humblest 

life, 
With love alone, than tropic sweetness, 

palms, 
And languorous air ; for poets need full 

time 
For resting in the shadow, like the plants. 
Of seasons dull. 

Behold ! upon the ground 
A chrysalid from which a butterfly 
On golden wing bursts forth to woo the 

flower : 
So shall he soar whose soul's sufficiencies 
Shall sparkle thro' their covering of clay. 



MY HARP. 

On polished floor it stands, a harp of 

gold, 
Of dainty carving, and of graceful mould, 
Strung with its chords of silver, red, and 

blue, 
Tuned to high key, melodious and true. 

I speak to it, and, as a faithful friend 
Which hath no interest, nor selfish end, 
It answereth. Ah me, the lovely tone ! 
It is the sweetest voice that I have known. 

I pass my hands along the silent strings. 
And soft the sad, the melancholy things 
Wake at the touch ; with very life they 

sigh. 
Like forest leaflets when the wind is high. 



MV HARP. 103 

But hark ! there was a sharp, discordant 

sound ; 
And look thou ! on the floor, curled round 

and round, 
A broken string doth lie. O mortal bliss ! 
In thee perfection lives no more than 

this. 



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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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